


Chart the Course

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [85]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Episode: s03e06 Do You Like Teeth?, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Suicidal Thoughts, The Darkness Key fucks with them heavily here, discussion of past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: "I was looking forward to going on a boating quest with you."Oh, Eliot wants to die. He's already dead, according to memories he shouldn't have about a life he never lived. He stands up. "Who wouldn't?" he asks, followed instantly, desperately, by, "You could take Benedict. Go be life partners with someone else for a bit."Seriously?He almost bites clean through his fucking tongue.Quentin's brow furrows. "Life partners… With Benedict?""And!" Eliot says, ignoring him. "You'll be able to do that thing on the prow of a ship you've been waiting your whole life to do."The furrow deepens. "Whatthing?"
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [85]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	Chart the Course

**Author's Note:**

> "Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings" in this case means "Pay Close Attention to the Tags" _really_ hard, folks; there's no good Archive Warning for what the Darkness Key puts Eliot and Quentin through in this fic.

"I was looking forward to going on a boating quest with you."

Oh, Eliot wants to die. He's already dead, according to memories he shouldn't have about a life he never lived. He stands up. "Who wouldn't?" he asks, followed instantly, desperately, by, "You could take Benedict. Go be life partners with someone else for a bit." _Seriously?_ He almost bites clean through his fucking tongue.

Quentin's brow furrows. "Life partners… With Benedict?"

"And!" Eliot says, ignoring him. "You'll be able to do that thing on the prow of a ship you've been waiting your whole life to do."

The furrow deepens. " _What_ thing?"

Eliot's heart aches, and he can't not reach out, pull Quentin in against him with an arm around his shoulders. "You know what thing," he murmurs. He presses a light kiss to Quentin's temple, and hates himself even more.

Quentin leans against Eliot for a moment before he pulls back. "You're really set on not going on this quest?"

"I can't," Eliot sighs. "Wanting has nothing to do with it, Q."

"No, of course," Quentin sighs, pulling back and letting his arm fall back to his side from the easy place it had found around Eliot's waist. There's... _something_ in his tone as he says, "I'll start getting things ready, then."

Eliot smiles at him. "Be careful," he says. "If I don't see you before, good luck."

"Yeah, you, too, El," Quentin says, that same _something_ in his voice as he pokes his head out the door and then ducks around the corner, heading down the hall. 

* * *

Eliot thinks that's the end of it for the rest of the day. He catches up with Margo, starts helping her figure out ways to get her practically-a-child spouse to quit trying to fuck her, and keeps an eye out for any more fairy bullshit. 

Somehow, the last thing he expects is for Margo to corner him in his rooms that night after dinner with the opener of: "Quentin told me what the next stage of the quest is."

"Yeah, he told me, too," Eliot says, undoing the buttons on his shirt. "Sounds like he's got it under control."

"For the most part," Margo concedes. "But I'm not convinced he should be going with just Benedict for company."

Eliot frowns. "Why not? They'll be fine."

"Oh, yeah, sending the barely-medicated depressed supernerd into literal unending darkness with the well-meaning dork of a mapmaker he barely knows is a fine idea," Margo drawls. "C'mon, El. Everyone else is busy with their parts of the quest, I can't leave Whitespire thanks to the Fairy Bitch and my fratricidal infant of a husband and his borderline psychotic mother, and _someone_ needs to go make sure that Q doesn't come out the other end of the quest worse than he went in."

Eliot can feel his control of this situation slipping from his grasp. "But I need to stay with you," he protests. "You just said it yourself, you have way too much on your plate right now."

Margo waves a hand. "The day I can't handle a twit like Fomar is the day I deserve to be shot," she tells him. "The Fairy Queen won't do anything if she thinks I'm going along with her plan, and despite her weird requests, she hasn't actually tried to harm Fillory's people yet. I can handle things for as long as it takes you and Quentin to get that next Key."

Eliot wants more than anything to dig his heels in, but he knows that look on Margo's face and he knows he doesn't actually have a choice. He sighs. "You have to send a bunny if you need help," he says.

"Of course I will," Margo scoffs. 

* * *

This morning, despite his better judgement, Eliot is packed and ready to go, but he can't actually bring himself to feel annoyed as he walks down to meet Quentin on the dock. Quentin is clearly surprised to see him, and why shouldn't he be? Eliot does his best not to look like the sight of him doesn't immediately soothe his soul, or something. "Hey," he says, squinting at the ship through the morning sunlight rather than keep looking at Quentin. "Room for one more?"

"Of course," Quentin says, and Eliot might not be looking at him, but he knows what Quentin sounds like when he's smiling as he talks. "Margo talked you into coming, I see."

Eliot wants to be surprised, but really it makes a lot of sense. "Of course you went to her," he says. "Scheming behind my back, much?"

”Scheming to get this quest done as quickly and efficiently as possible,” Quentin retorts. “Come on, let’s put your stuff in with mine, we’ll be setting off soon.”

Eliot follows Quentin onto the ship and down into a cabin, but freezes when he notices that the room is very obviously already occupied. "Q, this is your cabin," he says, frowning.

"Benedict has the guest cabin, and the crew have their own, so we're going to have to share," Quentin says matter-of-factly. He glances back at Eliot, raises an eyebrow. "Unless you want to kick Benedict out of his cabin and make him bunk with the crew?"

Eliot shakes himself. "Of course not," he says. "I'll just take the cot."

Quentin snorts, glancing at the cot in question. "That thing? That's hardly big enough for a ten year old?"

"Don't be so dramatic, Quentin," Eliot huffs, walking over to it and dropping his bag onto it. It is small, though not quite as small as Quentin suggested. "It'll be fine. I've slept on worse."

"Yeah, but you don't have to now," Quentin points out. "The bed's plenty big enough for both of us, El."

Eliot fights the urge to roll his eyes; to run. "I'm not sharing a bed with you," he says. "Your feet are always freezing and you flail about in your sleep like you're being murdered. No thanks."

"You always turn into an octopus, how can I flail?" Quentin retorts, lips twitching. "Fine, if you're gonna be a stubborn ass, sleep on the cot. But the offer stands when your back starts trying to murder you from the inside."

Eliot smirks. "Luckily for you, I woke up a few days ago in the body of a sprightly twenty four-year-old, so my back will be fine, thank you."

"Yeah, sure, tell me how fine your back is after a week on that scrap of fabric," Quentin laughs. "Come on, let's go see if there's anything else we need to do before we set sail."

* * *

Quentin gets to do the thing on the prow of the ship. It's really cute to watch, actually, to see him getting excited about being on a boat, about being on a boating _quest_. Eliot helps him down when he's done, and doesn't quite let go of his hand afterwards, just leaves his own resting on top of Quentin's as they peer over the side of the ship together. "Having fun?" he asks, his voice warm.

"So far, yeah," Quentin says, turning to give Eliot a grin. "Good weather, smooth sailing, and even though we don't know where the Key is _in_ the Abyss, we know where that is. It's a good enough start."

"It is," Eliot agrees. "We've gone off after a Key knowing a lot less."

”Oh, Christ, we knew practically _nothing_ about the first Key,” Quentin laughs. “We didn’t even know if it really existed.”

"But here we are," Eliot says. "On a boating quest, just like you've always wanted."

"Here we are," Quentin agrees, something content and _happy_ and maybe a little more in his gaze as he looks at Eliot, leans into his side - 

Only to practically jump overboard when Benedict startles them both, his excited voice coming from right behind them. "Your Majesties! We're nearing the end of the Fillory continent, you can actually see part of Loria's border to the north!"

Eliot recovers first, stepping back from the side of the ship and clearing his throat. "Yes, fascinating, thank you Benedict." He straightens his already wrinkle-free shirt and turns away. "I'm sure King Quentin will appreciate your geography lessons more than I will, so if you'll excuse me."

If he thinks he feels Quentin’s gaze on his back, he doesn’t turn around.

* * *

Quentin and Eliot keep to themselves for the rest of the day. Quentin’s busy with Benedict, trying to work out where might be the best place to enter the Abyss, and if there’s anything they could do to try to strengthen their chances of getting out quickly once they find the Key. All they manage to do is come up with several possible, half-formed plans, none of which Quentin is very happy with, but they’re better than having no plan at all.

Once he and Benedict finally call it quits for the day, Quentin takes himself down to the galley. He waves off the cook’s deferential bow, asks for a little bit of space to work, and tucks himself into a corner of the galley. It’s been… Both a long time and no time at all since he’s cooked, and while a lot of the minutiae of that fifty years he never lived but somehow remembers is hazy, Quentin’s hoping that it’ll be enough. He’s not the best cook - has, in fact, nearly managed to burn a kitchen down while boiling a pot of water more than once, RIP his security deposit on his first apartment - but he’s not trying for anything fancy here. 

He still manages to start a small fire, but the potatoes are only _slightly_ singed by the time he extinguishes it, swearing violently and studiously avoiding the amused-slashed-concerned look the cook gives him. Quentin doesn’t let that deter him, just lowers the temperature a bit and keeps cooking. Eventually, he has an edible - if not exactly _pretty_ \- meal that he made almost entirely himself. The cook had finally stepped in while Quentin was trying to cook the pork, claiming that he couldn’t bear to see his king butcher such fine cuts of meat, and Quentin had bowed to his expertise and followed his instructions for a simple, but tasty, glaze.

As he carries the covered plates back to his and Eliot’s cabin, Quentin spares a moment to pity the servants to nobles on Earth, who’d had to physically carry these dishes to their employers without the use of magic in all sorts of weather conditions. Right now, the _Muntjac_ is calm, barely bobbing along the surface of the ocean as they make their way steadily towards the edge of the Abyss, but if it were storming, and the sea was rough, and Quentin had to carry these in his hands? The plates would never survive.

As it is, the calm seas and careful steps ensure that the plates make it to their cabin unscathed, and their contents are undisturbed when Quentin peeks at them. He sets the plates down on the table, and busies himself tidying up the room, adjusting the lighting. He has a vague plan for the night, for how he wants this meal to go, and setting the mood is important.

That means, of course, that Eliot walks in on him in the middle of setting everything up.

"What's all this?" Eliot asks, his eyebrows raised as he surveys the scene.

Quentin jumps, swearing, and whirls to face Eliot. "Um. Dinner?"

"For two?" Eliot asks, his gaze landing on the second place Quentin has set. "I didn't realise you were going to take my comment about Benedict so seriously, but sure."

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Benedict's already got a life partner, and besides, I technically outrank him. That would be kinda skeevy if I was trying to have a nice dinner with him in a romantic context. This is for you and me."

Eliot must know this, but his eyebrows still shoot up into his hairline. "In a romantic context," he says.

Quentin mentally curses himself, and opts for attempted obfuscation. "What, that isn't the context you meant when you told me to go be life partners with him?"

Eliot blinks. "You can do whatever you want, Q," he says, shaking his head.

"Well, what I want right now is to have dinner. With you. If that's something you want to do, too, I mean. If you didn't already have plans?"

Eliot rolls his eyes. "Yes, actually, I was planning to spend my whole evening with Benedict. Alone."

Quentin makes a face. "There's no need to be an ass," he says. "You can just say no, El."

Eliot smiles. "I'm not saying no," he says. "I'm saying 'thank fucking god'."

A slow smile spreads over Quentin's face. "So you'll stay for dinner, then?"

"Yes," Eliot says. "The less I have to socialise with everyone else on this boat, the better. You're the only person who doesn't bow to me every time you see me or agree with everything I say because I'm the _High King_."

Quentin snorts, but relaxes. "It's not their fault they were raised in a system that venerates royalty. Come on, let's sit down and eat and you can bitch to your heart's content about it."

Eliot sits, and curiously lifts the cover on his plate. "Did you actually cook?" he asks.

"The side dishes. Chef Harding refused to let me 'butcher' the pork," Quentin confesses. "Not after seeing the, um. _Tiny_ incident with the potatoes."

Eliot covers his mouth with his hand in an attempt to contain his laughter, but a tiny snort escapes him. "The incident?"

Quentin sighs, but he's fighting a smile. "I might have gotten distracted checking what fruit we had and there was a tiny fire and they got a little singed."

Eliot can't help it anymore. He laughs. "You set fire to the potatoes?" he asks, and picks up his fork to gently roll some of the potatoes over. "Yep. You sure did. Oh, Q."

"They're edible!" Quentin protests, laughing, as he takes his own seat. "It’s not like I _charred_ them."

"No," Eliot agrees, amusement dancing in his eyes. "They're just a little... sauteed. It's great, Q, really."

Quentin rolls his eyes, his smile softening as they settle in to eat. "So," he says after a moment, "you've traveled on the _Muntjac_ before, right? To go get the first key? Is there anything I should be on the lookout for, like weird magic ship behaviors?"

"Everything is weird magic ship behaviour," Eliot sighs. "Just don't let her get raped and we should be fine."

Quentin almost chokes on his mouthful. " _What?_ "

Eliot waves his hand. "We got boarded by pirates," he says. "Their ship wanted to mate with our ship, but our ship wasn't super excited about that."

Quentin snorts. "I'm sure, and I can't blame her," he says archly. "Being run by _pirates_ probably gave it one hell of a skewed view on ethics and morals."

Eliot inclines his head. "She also gets pissy if you insult her," he says, "so avoid that."

Quentin laughs, reaching to the side to pat the wall. "Now why would I do that? She is a lovely strong lady, and I am very grateful that she's going to be taking care of us for this journey."

The ship creaks in approval, and Eliot grins. "Got yourself a fan, Q."

" _Sincere_ flattery gets you everywhere," Quentin says, smirking - and he doesn't know where it comes from, where he gets the courage to do so, but he winks at Eliot as he speaks. 

Eliot's surprise shows on his face only for an instant, before he smiles, small and pleased. "Noted."

* * *

It's been a few days since they shared that meal in their cabin, and it's the middle of the night. Eliot wraps his blanket closer around him and peers at Quentin through the darkness, one side of his face illuminated by the watery glow of the moon. He's rather beautiful, if Eliot lets himself think about it. He doesn't. Instead, he thinks about waking up with a start from a nightmare a few minutes ago and reaching out blindly in the dark for Quentin's hand, only to find himself almost falling out of the narrow cot he'd confined himself to and Quentin's bed empty, besides. It hadn't been such a leap from that instant to the next, which found him heading up onto the deck in search of his-- friend.

It's a clear night, and not a warm one. Even wrapped up as he is, Eliot can still feel the wind on the back of his neck, but it's the sight of Quentin that makes him shiver, his arms bare to the elements and his blanket forgotten on his bed until Eliot snatched it up along with his own. He watches for a moment longer, curious to see such a serene look on his face, until he realises that Quentin is trembling in the chill of the night air. He steps smartly forward then and settles Quentin's blanket about his shoulders, smiling when Quentin starts and looks around at him.

"Can't sleep?" Eliot asks.

Quentin laughs quietly, drawing the blanket closer. "No," he sighs. "Just... Brain wouldn't _fucking_ shut up." He glances up, seems to take in Eliot's appearance, and his gaze softens. "You?"

"Weird dream," Eliot says, because he doesn't want to admit that he had a nightmare about hearing their son calling out for him, lost and terrified, but being unable to find him. "You wanna talk about it?"

Quentin shrugs, shifting and patting the deck beside him in clear invitation. "Just... going in circles. How are we going to find the Key? How are we going to get out of the Abyss when we do? What comes next?"

Eliot sighs and sinks down next to Quentin. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe once we have the Key we'll know what to do, or it'll-- show us, somehow. That's what's happened before, right?"

"Yeah, the book updated," Quentin says, shuffling back over until his side is pressed against Eliot's. "But I still can't help worrying."

"I know," Eliot says. He wraps an arm around Quentin's shoulders and tips his head until he can rest his cheek against Quentin's hair. "But we'll figure it out, whatever happens."

Quentin hums idly, relaxing against Eliot. They lapse into silence, save for the sound of the ropes and wood creaking on the ship and waves slapping against the hull, for several long, easy minutes before he speaks again. "Y'know what's comforting? The stars are the same. Different angle, but still the same."

"Yeah," Eliot agrees, looking up at the glittering night sky. "They're beautiful. We never did get around to learning all the constellations, though."

"No," Quentin hums, "but they're still beautiful. Even if the rest of it wasn't real to anyone else..." He sighs. "Sorry, I know you don't want to talk about it."

Eliot really doesn't, but what is he supposed to do when Quentin sounds so dejected? "It's okay, Q," he murmurs. "Unless you want to talk about it with Benedict."

Quentin snorts. "Ass," he mutters, elbowing Eliot - but it's light, and his tone is fond. 

Eliot chuckles softly and presses a kiss, feather-light, to Quentin's crown. He probably won't even feel it. "There was a lot about that life that really sucked," he says quietly. "No wifi, no running water, no wet wipes... But there was a lot about it that was beautiful, too."

Quentin chuckles, settling against Eliot. "It was," he hums. "But my _God,_ wet wipes are so vastly underappreciated. Don't know what you're missing from the modern world until you don't have it anymore." He pauses, then asks, "Speaking of, how is the mission to bring champagne to Fillory going?"

Eliot groans. "It's a _disaster_ ," he complains. "It was all downhill anyway, but since the fairies have taken over it's just not on the list of priorities anymore, apparently. I don't know why. Everyone would be much more amenable to being their bitches if they were drunk on excellent champagne."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure," Quentin says, clearly amused. " _Is_ that what they want? Everyone to be their bitch?"

Eliot shrugs. "As far as we can tell," he says. "But who knows? Queen Cunt hasn't given us her evil villain monologue yet."

Quentin makes an annoyed noise. "I wish we could learn the villain’s motivation before they deliver the evil monologue," he groans. "That's usually delivered right before the last stage of their Big Dastardly Plan."

"Pretty much," Eliot agrees, laughing. "But here we are on a boat so that we can save all of magic, so let's hope she waits until we get back."

* * *

”Huh,” Benedict says, thoughtful. “I didn’t think the Abyss would be so… dark.”

Quentin can’t help snorting. “Almost makes me think we’ve found the edge of the planet,” he agrees. “Looks like we’re about to drop off into space.”

Benedict eyes the daunting blackness in front of them, his expression doubtful. “All of the legends say that our navigation equipment is going to be useless after we enter,” he sighs. “Which means we can’t even rely on map-making too much to retrace our path.”

"We'll be fine," Eliot says, though he doesn't sound convinced. "We've been through more than a little bit of eternal night to get these Keys before, and we've always found our way back."

"Last time Margo had to go rob a grave," Quentin points out, tone dry. 

Benedict looks troubled by this revelation for only a moment before he sighs. "I'm going to go... try to fine-tune my instruments," he decides. "Hopefully keep them at least semi-useful."

Eliot watches him go with a sigh. "We're fucked, aren't we?"

"So fucked," Quentin agrees. "And not in a fun way, either. We're gonna have to keep our eyes peeled for any sign of anything different in all of _that_ \- " He waves in the general direction of the Abyss - "for the Key. I doubt our luck is gonna be good enough that someone's just gonna fucking sail right up to us and hand us the damn thing."

"We can hope, though, right?"

”Oh, yeah, we can _hope,_ ” Quentin says dryly. “Can’t get them too high, though.”

* * *

Despite all expectations to the contrary, they’ve only been in the Abyss for what they’ve calculated is two days when they spot a light in the darkness. They adjust their course and slow speed to avoid running into any unseen obstacles, and Quentin almost shoves Eliot into the main mast when he gives Quentin a significant look. He settles for rolling his eyes heavily as he approaches the rail, watching the dot of light get bigger as they get closer. 

It turns out to be, of all things, a fucking _raft._ More than that, it’s a raft with a _passenger._

”Hey out there!” Quentin calls once they’re close enough to pick out the passenger - it looks like a woman.

"Hey!" the woman calls back, waving. "Are you real, or have I finally lost my frickin' mind?"

Quentin can't help but snort. "Pretty sure we're real," he calls back. "Who are you?"

"I'm Poppy!" the woman shouts cheerfully. "I'm lost!"

Quentin glances at Eliot. "Should we invite her onboard?"

Eliot shrugs. "She's the first person - the first _anything_ we've come across since we found the Abyss," he says. "And if she's alone, we outnumber her. How much of a threat can she be?"

"Savage," Quentin chuckles, turning back to face the raft. "Can you come closer?" he calls. "We've plenty of space on board for one more person."

"You bet your ass!" Poppy calls back.

It takes a little bit of maneuvering to get Poppy’s raft close enough for her to board, but eventually, she’s standing in front of them, all but bouncing on her toes. “How long have you been out there?” Quentin asks, eyeing the raft still bobbing on the waves; it looks relatively well-provisioned, like it had once been used for a long journey.

"Oh, I have no idea," Poppy laughs. "No way to tell the time out there, huh? How long have _you_ been out here?"

"About two days," Quentin says, glancing back at the captain who nods a confirmation. "I'm King Quentin, this is High King Eliot, and our crew. You're on the _Muntjac._ "

Poppy snorts. "You're _kings?_ " She glances between them, and frowns. "But that means you must be Children of Earth." Eliot nods, and her eyes widen. "Holy shit, are you guys from _Brakebills?_ "

Quentin smiles and half-shrugs. "Yep."

"How did you know that?" Eliot asks, suspicious, but Poppy just grins.

"Because I am, too! I was in my second year, and we all decided to come to Fillory for spring break with this girl Victoria who was a Traveller, but everything went a little weird when we got here and we all got separated. I think they're all dead now? But here I am!"

"Wait, you would’ve been a third year?” Quentin asks, eyes wide. “Did you know Josh Hoberman?"

"Yeah, he came with us, too," Poppy says. She frowns. "Have we met?"

"I was a first year when you guys went missing," Eliot offers. "Quentin's a year below. But Hoberman's alive; so is Victoria."

Poppy's eyes widen. "Really?"

Quentin nods. "One of our friends, Penny, is a Traveler. He started having dreams of Victoria, found her through a psychic connection of some kind. He ended up bringing us here, and we got her out. There was a lot more drama after that, but Josh saved our lives at one point."

"Get out," Poppy says. She looks delighted. "That's so cool. And now you're the kings of Fillory?"

Quentin smirks at Eliot. "He took a blood test."

Poppy gives him a considering look. "You do look like a king," she admits.

Eliot tries very hard not to preen. "One does one's best," he says graciously.

Poppy grins. "So what brings you guys all the way out here?"

Quentin shares another look with Eliot, considering how much to divulge to Poppy. After a moment, he settles on, "We're on a quest, and looking for something that's supposed to be hidden in here."

Luckily, Poppy doesn't press. "Sounds very noble and kingly," she says. "Is there anything to drink on this ship? Like, a _real_ drink."

Eliot smiles. "A woman after my own heart."

Quentin snorts, stepping to the side and gesturing towards the door that leads below deck. "Let's get you one, then. And maybe some actual food?"

* * *

Poppy practically inhales the food that Quentin has brought to the royal cabin, and he discreetly sends one of the servants back for more; they packed enough that they can spare a little extra for one meal. It doesn’t take long to get Poppy talking once the alcohol comes out, and when she mentions her major, Quentin practically lights up, already slightly tipsy from his own drinks. “Wait, wait, Brakebills offers classes on dragons?” he demands.

"Yeah, but not for first years," Poppy says. "It's hands-on and obviously very dangerous." She smirks. "Only two other people got into the class in my year."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "And one of those two people ended up in the infirmary before Christmas with severe burns and then had to retake the year, and the other one disappeared at the same time as you did," he says tartly. "So that class wasn't an option the following year."

Quentin makes a face. “Makes sense,” he says, though he still sounds put-out, like he would’ve liked the chance to take a class on _dragons._ “What did happen? After, y'know - “ He waves a hand in a vague gesture. “Shit hit the fan, I mean.”

"I don't know what happened to most of the others," Poppy admits. "We all kind of scattered. Me and a couple of the others found our way to the sea, and we joined the crew of a pirate ship." She grins. "Which was about as sexy and daring as it sounds. Especially when we found a dragon's kickass treasure nest."

Quentin looks suitably impressed. "Was the dragon there?"

"If she was, we'd be dead," Poppy says, laughing. "We grabbed as much treasure as we could and got the hell out of there. It was amazing - until, y'know, everything went tits up and I ended up on a raft in the middle of the Abyss. But enough about me." She leans forward, rests her hand on Quentin's arm. "I want to hear more about _you_."

"There's not much to tell," Quentin says dismissively, oblivious. He reaches for his glass, refills it and takes another sip before continuing. "I'm just a super nerd who's getting to live out his biggest fantasy of going on a boating quest, honestly."

"A quest?" Poppy asks, fingering Quentin's sleeve. "That sounds exciting. What kind of quest?"

"If you haven't noticed," Eliot says, his tone clipped, "all of magic has vanished from the world. We're trying to get it back."

Quentin nods, mindful of his drink as he gestures emphatically at Eliot. "Exactly. So, there's a - a backup Wellspring, a fountain, kind of? That can turn magic back on, basically. But to activate it, we need seven Keys."

"Keys?" Poppy asks, leaning into Quentin's space with interest. "What kind of keys?"

"Magic ones," Quentin says, grinning. "One, Eliot found in a far-off village, it reveals truths and can conjure illusions. Another can control time, Eliot and I got that one. Each one does something different by itself, but together, they'll unlock the fountain so that magic can return to the world."

"Fascinating," Poppy murmurs. She reaches into a pocket with her free hand and produces a slender golden object. "They don't look like this, do they?"

Quentin's eyes widen, and he leans forward, seemingly without thinking. "That - They kinda do, yeah," he breathes. "Holy shit, I can _feel_ the magic on it."

Poppy grins. "Well, if it's going to help get magic back, maybe I should give it to you."

"Yes," Eliot says tightly. "Maybe you should."

"Wait, El, remember what the, uh. Priest, guy, was using the Truth Key for?" Quentin frowns, turning back to Poppy. "Sometimes they have, like. Side effects."

Poppy frowns. "Like what?" she asks. "This one hasn't done anything. It's just all I got off the ship with when it went down a few days ago - maybe it's lucky?"

"Maybe?" Quentin says, shrugging. "The Time Key just had a really fucking difficult puzzle to get it, maybe that Key's downside was that it was in a dragon's hoard."

"Well in that case, it's a good job it was me who found it," Poppy says. She places the Key on the table between them. "It's all yours, King Quentin."

Eliot huffs and gets to his feet. "Does anyone want another drink?"

Poppy cheers her assent, Quentin echoing his before he has a chance to pick up the Key. 

* * *

The rest of the night turns into a blur from there. It doesn’t last much longer, Quentin’s pretty sure, before the three of them pass out around the table - but when they wake up, there’s four of them. And the newcomer looks exactly like Quentin. “Motherfucker!” he yelps, instinctively pushing away from the table in shock, rattling it and waking Eliot and Poppy at the same time.

"What?" Eliot demands. "What is it?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ," the other Quentin says, rolling his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

Quentin stares at his doppelganger, but before he can say anything, Poppy speaks up. "Oh, thank _Christ,_ " she sighs. "You have no idea how grating that stupid thing was."

Eliot looks between the two of them, bewildered. "What are you talking about? What the hell is going on?"

"Don't answer that," not-Quentin warns. "He'll think you've really lost it this time. Maybe you have. Maybe you've finally cracked."

"I swear to God, there's another me sitting _right there,_ " Quentin insists, ignoring his doppelganger's warning and pointing at what, to the others, looks like empty air. 

Not-Quentin rolls his eyes. "You've done it now."

"What are you talking about?" Eliot rounds on Poppy. "What is he talking about?"

"Have you even washed your hair since you got back to Fillory?" not-Quentin asks, squinting at Quentin himself. "God, no wonder Eliot won't go near you. You look like you smell weird."

Poppy puts her hands up in a defensive gesture. "Okay, so, there _may_ be a side effect to that Key, but it's nothing Mr Perky can't handle!"

"That's just you all over, isn't it, sunshine?" not-Quentin drawls. "Not. Would it kill you to smile, like, just once, and not look like a deranged maniac?"

" _Poppy,_ " Quentin says, strained, as he drags his gaze from his doppelganger. "What. Exactly. Is the 'side effect'?"

Poppy sighs. "The last person to touch the Key sees a Mirrorverse version of themselves," she admits. "But only they can see it. It never goes away, and it never... stops. Usually it negs you." She shrugs one shoulder. "Half the crew offed themselves before we figured out a rotating schedule to keep it from being too overwhelming."

"And you didn't think to tell us this?" Eliot thunders. "Quentin, what are you seeing right now?"

Quentin jumps, wrenching his gaze back from where it had drifted back to his doppelganger. "I-I told you. Another me. Sitting in that chair."

"What is it saying?" Eliot asks, gentler this time.

"Nothing much," not-Quentin says, grinning. "I'm just pointing out what you already know. This boating quest that you were so excited to take him on? Waste of time. He'll never look at you the way you want him to."

Quentin grits his teeth. "What Poppy said it would," he says, doing his best to look anywhere but at not-Quentin. "Saying the same _fucking_ shit my depressed brain spits out every day."

Poppy's eyes widen. "Oh, shit. You mean, like - clinically?"

Quentin glares at her. " _Yes,_ " he growls. "Clinically. Been hospitalized for suicide attempts and everything, too."

"Wow, overshare, much?" not-Quentin drawls. "You sure do like to talk about it. Are you sure you're not just doing it for attention?"

"Yes, that's right," Eliot snaps, rounding on Poppy, "you gave someone with _clinical depression_ a key that makes people kill themselves. Guards!"

Poppy protests, shouting - something that Quentin doesn't quite catch, but the guards Eliot called for are already in the room, pulling her to her feet. Quentin's busy trying to find the damn Key, patting down his pockets and shirt until he finds the Key on a cord around his neck he'd previously missed, too caught up in everything else. He grabs it, holding the Key up, and squints at it for a moment before he looks back at Poppy. "You should've told us what it did," he says, frowning heavily. "We would've helped you."

"I couldn't take that chance!" Poppy protests. "I'd already been dealing with that _bitch_ for almost a week all by myself! You're a fucking king, you've got an entire boat full of people, make everyone wear it for a couple of hours and you'll be fine!"

"Throw her the fuck overboard," Eliot snarls.

"No!" Poppy yelps, her struggles intensifying. 

" _Absolutely_ not!" Quentin shouts, pushing himself to his feet. He levels a hard look at Eliot. "We're not fucking executing her, Eliot."

"You think he's going to take orders from you?" not-Quentin asks, gesturing to Eliot. "He's the fucking High King. He didn't even want you to be a king in the first place."

But Eliot doesn't argue. "Fine," he spits. "Get her out of my sight. Lock her in one of the cabins."

One of the guards gives them a bow, and then Poppy is dragged, still shouting, from the room. Quentin slumps back into his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face as he mutters a curse. "I knew that Key had to have some other side effect."

Not-Quentin claps slowly. "Genius, aren't you? Not smart enough for Alice, though."

Eliot sighs. "Give me the Key, Quentin."

Quentin's head snaps up. "What? No."

"Yes," Eliot says. He holds out his hand. "Poppy said this thing drives people to suicide, and you said it yourself: you're already there most of the time. We don't need anything pushing you over the edge."

"He thinks you're weak," not-Quentin says mildly.

"It's nothing worse than what my brain already spits out," Quentin insists, making no move to hand the Key over. "I can handle it, at least for a while."

"Q," Eliot says, scowling. "You don't have to do this."

"No, you don't," not-Quentin agrees. "You could pussy out and give him the Key - or you could throw yourself overboard. Just a suggestion."

"I'll be fine," Quentin says, more firmly this time. He meets Eliot's gaze and studiously ignores not-Quentin in his chair. "We have the Key, we can start working on trying to find a way out of the Abyss, now, and the sooner we're out, the sooner we'll get back to Fillory."

"And then what are we going to do with it?" Eliot asks. "You can't keep hold of it until then."

"When it gets too much, then we can switch," Quentin says, because he knows he's not going to convince Eliot right now to just drop it. "But for now, I'm fine. I can handle it."

Eliot searches his face for a moment - and sighs. "Fine," he says, "but if it gets too much..."

"He gave that up far too easy. He _wants_ you to keep it."

Quentin doesn’t look at not-Quentin as he nods. "If it gets too much, I'll tell you," he promises. 

Eliot doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't argue either.

* * *

The rest of the day passes agonisingly slowly. Eliot keeps an eye on Quentin when Quentin doesn't think he's looking, and watches him flinch periodically, glaring at someone who isn't there, and even on a couple of occasions muttering to himself. He knows that whatever Quentin is hearing is awful, but every time Eliot gets near him to try to ask him about it or suggest that he give up the Key for a while, Quentin pulls further into himself, insisting that he can handle it. And maybe he can. Eliot watched him fight these battles with varying degrees of success for fifty years; if anyone is experienced enough with their own inner demons to deal with this, it's Quentin. But still, he worries.

He worries more when they go to bed that night, Eliot folding himself onto that tiny cot so that Quentin can take the bed. Quentin holds himself absolutely rigid until Eliot has faked sleep for long enough that it's convincing, and then he starts tossing and turning, huffing in frustration, clearly plagued by this apparition that Poppy described. At one point Eliot thinks he hears Quentin actually cover his head with the pillow, trying to drown out whatever the thing is saying, and it takes everything Eliot has not to get up and go to him right then. But it's no use. Eliot knows from experience that if he sticks his nose in before Quentin's ready, he'll just end up pushing him further away.

The next day is much the same. Eliot goes down to the cabin Poppy has been confined to and tries to get more answers out of her, but she has nothing else to say. The Key causes an apparition to harass the last person who touched it with every awful thing they've ever thought about themselves, until either that person passes the Key along or kills themselves. Some people on Poppy's ship killed themselves as soon as they touched it, without ever telling the others what they saw or what it said to them. Based on her own experience, she suggests the chances of that happening are about 50/50. Knowing that she took that risk with Quentin, with anyone at all, makes Eliot angrier than he ever thought it was possible to be - but he knows Quentin would be upset if he threw her overboard.

He leaves her to rot instead, and does his best to distract Quentin whenever Quentin can tolerate his presence. It doesn't work as well as he might want it to. Quentin is clearly still hearing the apparition, still taking on board whatever it says despite his efforts to ignore it. Eliot hates it. He hates it even more when Quentin decides to take his evening meal in their cabin, alone. Eliot eats on deck, trying not to feel too claustrophobic surrounded by the ever-present, oppressive darkness. He walks around a little bit afterwards, peers out over the railing into the inky black sky, the identical inky black water. For a moment he thinks he sees glowing red eyes peering out at him from beneath the waves, but they're gone a moment later. He read once that if a person stares into darkness for long enough, their brain starts to provide its own entertainment. He much prefers that analysis to the idea that they're sharing this space with something more sinister, lurking below them.

He leaves it as long as he can, but he's exhausted and he's worried about Quentin, so at last he dares to make his way below deck and approach their cabin. He does knock, but he doesn't wait for Quentin to grant him admittance before he opens the door and lets himself in. The sight that greets him makes him wish that he'd come sooner. "Jesus, Q, are you okay?"

”The fuck do you think?” Quentin snaps, irritated and exhausted. He looks a state, his hair half-pulled from the ponytail he’d had it in this morning. He’s clearly been tugging at it, judging from the frazzled strands. The circles under his eyes, faint this morning, have deepened, darkened into worrying bruises. His dinner is half-finished on its tray, set aside on the table on one end of the cabin. Quentin himself is sitting cross-legged on the bed, his head propped on his hands. He heaves a sigh. “Sorry, just - I didn’t sleep well last night,” he confesses, without looking directly at Eliot. 

"I know," Eliot admits, torn. "Please give me the Key, Q."

"No," Quentin says, without hesitation. He looks irritated that Eliot even asked. "I'm - I'm not _fine,_ " he admits, after wincing and glaring at something just to Eliot's left, "but I'm handling it." He's quiet for another moment, biting his lip. "I... You - I could. Handle it better. With some help."

"Whatever you need," Eliot says, without hesitation.

Quentin takes a deep breath. "Could you - sleep with me? Just, y'know. Stay in the bed with me tonight. Might make it easier to get some actual sleep."

Now Eliot hesitates - but he sees Quentin send an almost wounded look to the empty space to his left, and his resolve strengthens. "Of course," he says, and kicks off his shoes. "Do you want to finish your dinner?"

Quentin glances at the food in question, giving it a considering look before he nods slowly. "I'll try, at least," he concedes. 

"You want me to bring it over to you?" Eliot presses.

Quentin makes a face, aimed once again at Eliot's left, but he nods nonetheless. "Thanks."

Eliot turns his face away to hide his grimace as he crosses the cabin to where Quentin has abandoned his dinner. "Whatever it's saying," he says mildly, "is bullshit."

"Yeah, I know," Quentin sighs. "But there's no way to get it to shut the fuck up. At _all._ "

"Then what can we do to distract you?" Eliot asks. He brings Quentin's plate over and sits down on the bed beside him. "Can we talk over it?"

"We can try," Quentin says, taking the plate and starting to pick at the food on it. "Part of the problem last night was it started talking directly in my head."

"All right, well, fuck that." Eliot crosses his legs on the bed, makes himself comfortable. "It's so dark up on deck that I think I've started hallucinating."

Quentin pauses with his fork midway to his mouth. "What?"

"I saw, like, a glow in the water," Eliot says. "I don't even know. It was probably a reflection or something."

Quentin frowns. "I didn’t think anything _could_ reflect out here. Unless it came from the _Muntjac_?" He takes another bite before he sighs and shrugs. "We'll tell the guards to keep an eye out, just to be safe."

"I'll mention it," Eliot agrees. "Hopefully we won't be in this place for much longer."

"Hopefully," Quentin sighs before flinching and glaring, hard, at one corner of the room. He turns his attention to his plate with single-minded focus, then, and finishes quickly. "I think it's late enough to go to bed?"

"Okay," Eliot says easily. "Do you think you could sleep?"

"I could try," Quentin concedes. He looks doubtful about how much success they'll have, though. 

"All right," Eliot says, "come on." He gets to his feet and pulls Quentin to his. "Get changed and we'll see, okay?"

Quentin sighs but goes easily enough, though he's clearly reluctant to let go of Eliot's hands. They get changed in relative silence, but Eliot makes a note of every time that Quentin flinches or his gaze darts to the same corner of the cabin as before. It's... a lot more than he's comfortable with, but Quentin is clearly putting on a brave face. When they climb into bed, both under the covers, Quentin's still holding himself stiffly, and looking at Eliot with something a little too close to painfully-yearning for Eliot's comfort. "Can I - " he starts, then falters, his hand shifting, making the sheets rustle as he makes an aborted movement towards Eliot.

Something in Eliot cracks open. "Of course," he says, and reaches out himself. "Come here, whatever you need just, let me help."

Quentin all but _slams_ into Eliot, burying his face in Eliot's chest and wrapping his arms around Eliot's waist. He tangles their legs together, and Eliot feels him take a deep, shuddering breath, can feel the shape of the Key under Quentin's shirt moving with his chest as he does so. "Thanks," Quentin mumbles without lifting his head.

Eliot just-- holds him. One hand on the small of his back, the other on the back of his head, fingers gently sifting through his too-long-not-long-enough hair, he holds Quentin against him like he never wants to let go. Because he doesn't. "Is it helping?" he asks, his voice hushed.

Quentin nods against Eliot. "It's still talking, in my head," he mumbles, "but it's - I can ignore it. It's more like my usual brain bullshit."

"Good," Eliot murmurs. "I've got you, Q. Try to get some sleep."

* * *

Quentin does manage to sleep, though it’s fitful. Every time he wakes up, he wakes Eliot, and not-Quentin mutters in his head about that, about how he should just get up, go somewhere else, let Eliot sleep since Quentin can’t even do that right - 

Quentin does his best to throttle it back with logic, and when that, predictably, doesn’t work, he presses himself further into Eliot’s arms and screws his eyes shut, focuses on the feeling of Eliot in front of and around him, and eventually he drifts off again.

It’s more sleep than he got the night before, but it’s still nowhere near a _restful_ night’s sleep, and Quentin knows it shows. Not-Quentin has upped his game, and despite his best efforts and all of his experience dealing with his broken brain, the constant onslaught is wearing on Quentin. Eliot tries to help, and Quentin _knows_ he’s just trying to help, but even that becomes too much, and eventually, Quentin kicks him out of their cabin. “I just need some goddamn _space,_ ” he snaps, right before shutting the door firmly - barely keeping himself from slamming it - behind Eliot.

"That's great," not-Quentin says. "So great. Shutting out the one person in this place who's trying to help. Brilliant, really. And very noble. At least now he doesn't have to pretend like he gives a shit."

"He does give a shit," Quentin snarls, unable to help himself. "More than _you_ do, you stupid magical hallucination."

"I might be a hallucination, but I'm just saying the shit you believe to be true," not-Quentin points out. "You know he's seen the worst, darkest parts of you, and you know that he couldn't get away from you fast enough once he remembered just how fucked up you are. You think he wants to be here now, stuck on this ship, holding you while you sleep? No. He just doesn't have the stones to kick you to the curb like Alice did."

"No, you're saying the shit I really fucking hope _isn't_ true," Quentin fires back, pacing restlessly. "You're a hallucination brought on by the Darkness Key, you're meant to drag all of my fears into the light and shove them down my throat."

"Oh my god," not-Quentin groans. "Are you listening to yourself? Stop ignoring what you already know. You're useless. You're pathetic, and no good to anyone, least of all Eliot. You got Alice killed, and when you brought her back all she did was resent you for it. Are you going to stick around and see if the same thing happens with him?"

"Yeah, actually, I am," Quentin snaps, whirling to glare at not-Quentin. "You think any of that is _new,_ motherfucker? I've been dealing with those sorts of thoughts for sixty _fucking_ years, _I know how this works!_ "

"So do I," not-Quentin bites back. "It works like this: you try to ignore me until you can't anymore, and then you try to _kill yourself._ There are no mental hospitals to wind up in in Fillory, Quentin, and certainly no doctors to stitch you back together. You did it at the mosaic, too, so don't try to deny it. What, did you think it doesn't count that you just stayed in bed for weeks at a time, refusing to eat or drink or even sit up, deliberately trying to waste away so that you wouldn't be a bother anymore? You think _this_ doesn't count? We both know it's an inevitability, Quentin, so you may as well speed up the process."

Quentin practically collapses onto the bed like a marionnette with its strings cut, his face buried in his hands.

* * *

Quentin doesn’t come out of the cabin for a few hours, and when he does, it’s mostly to just… go through the motions. Not-Quentin is a constant presence at his side, muttering and jeering and occasionally outright mocking him as he moves through the halls of the _Muntjac,_ getting some food - just finger food, nothing fancy, nothing more than fuel - and then retreats to a corner of the deck where he’s out of the way. He sits and stares into the blackness for a while, watches the way that the lantern light from the deck reflects off of the waves as he eats his fruit. At one point, he sees something that looks almost like an eye, but dismisses it; he’s been staring into the void for too long, and what’s the old saying? Stare into the void for long enough, and it’ll stare back? Or at least you’ll start to think it is, anyway.

Quentin manages to retreat to the cabin without seeing Eliot except from afar - he’d been consulting with the captain, the last Quentin had seen him - and he strips down to his shirt and underwear, suddenly completely and utterly exhausted, before climbing back into the bed. He doesn’t sleep, too focused on the heavy weight of the Key against his chest, the metal still cold despite resting against Quentin’s flesh for two days now, and too distracted by not-Quentin’s mocking observations as he lies in the bed and stares at the wall, not thinking of anything and just… staring at the wall, feeling the quiet, easy rocking of the _Muntjac_ beneath him.

That’s how Eliot finds him, who knows how long later.

"Q?" Eliot's voice is hushed, barely loud enough to be heard. The sight of Quentin with his thousand-yard stare has stolen his breath. He swallows and tries again, creeping closer. "Q."

It takes Quentin a moment to react, to focus his gaze and muster up something that might generously be called a smile. "Hi, El," he says, but there's no inflection to his tone. 

Eliot eases himself down onto the bed beside Quentin, but he doesn't reach out, not yet. "What's going on, Q?"

"Nothing," Quentin says, his gaze drifting back to the wall. "Just tired."

"What kind of tired?" Eliot asks.

There's a movement that might be a shrug under the blanket, but Quentin still doesn't look up or meet Eliot's gaze. "Just... tired."

Eliot sighs. "All right," he says. "I'm going to need you to sit up, okay? Can you do that for me?"

A vague frown crosses Quentin's expression, like he thinks he should protest, but can't quite figure out why. It passes, though, and he struggles upright. Eliot is there to support him, one hand steady on the small of his back and the other on the side of his face. It lingers there for a moment, Eliot's expression warm and encouraging, and then slips down, following the line of his neck to his chest. A moment later, his fingers dip beneath the collar of Quentin's shirt; a sharp tug, a snapping sound, and then the Key is firmly in Eliot's grasp.

Quentin's gasp is drowned out by a low chuckle from Eliot's cot. "Took you long enough," the apparition who must be Eliot's hallucination drawls. "Look at him, he's one wrong look from throwing himself overboard. Just can't stop hurting him, can you?"

" _El,_ " Quentin breathes, equal parts betrayed and worried - but there's a lightness behind his eyes that wasn't there even two minutes ago.

"It's fine," Eliot says. He tucks the Key into his pocket. "I'm fine, I swear. How do you feel?"

"Worried," Quentin says, his gaze searching Eliot's expression intently. "El, I was _handling it_ \- "

"What if he was?" not-Eliot wonders, pushing up off of the cot and wandering closer. "Fifty years, you're supposed to know him better than anyone, but you still worry. If you know him so well, why worry? Why would he _want_ you to worry?"

"I know," Eliot agrees, "but it was getting to you, I could tell. So it's my turn now."

"Oh, yes, tell him what he needs," not-Eliot murmurs, a glint in its eyes. "Tell him what he's feeling, that's always gone over so well."

Quentin shakes his head, not exactly a _denial_ of anything, more an expression of... something. Disbelief, perhaps. Maybe resignation. "You'll tell me the _moment_ it starts getting to you?" he asks, looking at Eliot with something close to pleading in his expression, his tone. 

"Of course," Eliot agrees. "But honestly? I can hardly hear it."

"Bullshit," not-Eliot singsongs, smirking. "You and I are going to be the best of friends - if I don't drive you overboard or onto your own fancy sword."

"That's bullshit, El," Quentin mutters, but he's clearly too exhausted to push the issue further.

"Just trust me," Eliot murmurs, brushing Quentin's hair back from his face. "Come on, have you eaten properly today?"

"Look at him, you know he hasn't, noble little thing that he is," not-Eliot coos, even as Quentin shakes his head. "And you know he doesn't want you fussing over him when he's like this. He's not a child, he doesn't need a minder. He'll only end up resenting you for this."

"Why don't you try to get some sleep, and I'll have something waiting for you when you wake up?" Eliot goes on.

"Overbearing mother hen," not-Eliot hums, settling onto the other side of the bed without making a dent in the covers.

"Okay," Quentin sighs. He's clearly fighting to keep his eyes open while Eliot's still here. "Come right back?"

"Of course," Eliot promises. "I'll sit with you until you wake up, okay?"

"You need to sleep, too," Quentin mumbles. "While you can."

Not-Eliot chuckles darkly. "'While you can,'" he echoes. "We're about to get very intimately acquainted, Eliot. You should listen to him."

* * *

Eliot doesn't sleep. Quentin is passed right out when he comes back with a little plate of sandwiches, and he doesn't want to overstep the mark and climb into bed with him, so he goes back to his little cot and curls up underneath the blanket and just-- tries to ignore the Eliot-shaped hallucination looming over him. He doesn't succeed, exactly, but he does manage to not engage with it, just screws his eyes shut and clenches his jaw so hard his teeth ache to keep from snapping back at it.

He doesn't want to listen to it, knows that everything not-Eliot is spitting out is bullshit. He said as much to Quentin, and he believed it, he still believes it. But... The thing is, Eliot has spent his whole life dealing with his problems by _not_ dealing with them. Having something with Eliot's own voice and Eliot's own knowledge of himself literally stand at the end of his bed and give voice to all of those problems and more? Eliot is not equipped to handle this. At all.

It starts out easy, at first, tells him that he's not man enough for his dad to ever approve of, that he's some kind of weird sexual deviant unworthy of love. He already knows that, okay? This is not news. But then it starts to really dig its claws in, goes deeper into the parts of Eliot that he never lets see the light of day, and he just can't. He can't speak, can't move, can't give this thing the satisfaction of acknowledging it because then it's _real._

He doesn't know when he starts shaking, but when he realises it his anger and frustration spill over and he just-- snaps.

"Will you fucking _shut up_ ," he hisses, the words barely even audible, but enough. He freezes.

Not-Eliot looks _delighted,_ like it knows it's finally struck a nerve. "Oh no, can't do that," he purrs. "Darling little Q told you, didn't he? I'll just start talking in your head, if you try to block me out out here. There's no escaping me, Eliot - There's no escaping the fact that you're a _murderer,_ killed your boyfriend with barely a thought before or after the deed."

Eliot sits bolt upright at that. " _What?_ " he demands, mindful of Quentin still sleeping on the other side of the cabin.

"Oh, sure, it was self-defense, of course," the hallucination hums. "The Beast was possessing him, had already killed someone, had tried to kill Penny, would have killed more - but you didn't try to knock Mike out, did you? Didn't try to do anything but kill him... And then you never thought about him again."

"That's not _true_ ," Eliot breathes. He's going to be sick.

"Is it? I'm meant to drag the deepest, darkest parts of you out into the light, Eliot - are you sure that _everything_ I say is bullshit?"

"If you can see the deepest parts of me, then you know I thought about him." Even whispering, Eliot's voice breaks. "I thought about nothing but him!"

"Did you? Or did you think about your _guilt?_ " Not-Eliot is relentless; now that he's found the sore spot, he's going to press until Eliot breaks. "Poor little Eliot, can't ever let anyone get too close because they end up hurt - possessed by a monster, killed by you, knocked down onto the gym floor and beaten until he's got three cracked ribs, all from your shoes."

" _Fuck you_ ," Eliot hisses. He gets out of bed.

* * *

Quentin finds him on the deck some time later. Eliot is surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol, lounging against the main mast in a way that suggests he's actually too drunk to really stand properly, even with the sea as calm as it is beneath them. The crew moves quietly around him, giving Eliot a wide berth, and Quentin's heart clenches in his chest as steps forward, leaning against the mast beside Eliot. "Thought you didn't drink anymore? Since Fillory doesn't have anything worth getting drunk on since we got back."

"Yeah, well, eighty-year-old me woke up in the body of an alcoholic, so." Eliot waves a hand, and stumbles against the mast. "Here we the fuck are."

Quentin makes an aborted move forward, like he was about to try to reach out and steady Eliot. "Yeah, I can see that. What - " He cuts himself off, changes direction before he gets the original question out. "What's it saying, El?"

Eliot laughs. "Exactly what you're saying," he says. "Look at me. Running back to the bottle as soon as everything starts going sideways. Perfectly on brand. Fucking pathetic."

Quentin's expression twists. "You're not pathetic," he says fiercely, stepping forward, closer to Eliot. "You said it yourself, you got put right back in a body that's a little too used to alcohol after years of being sober. This Key is meant to find every weak spot you have, especially the ones you never talk or think about, and drag them out so it can rub them in your face. It finds what hurts you the most and then it keeps pressing until you break. You're not pathetic for having weak spots or things you don't like to think about, El."

Eliot winces, presses his hand hard against the side of his head. "Stop it," he says - to not-Eliot, to Quentin, Quentin doesn't know. "Just, _shut up_. You're only saying these things because you feel sorry for me, because you think you need to be loyal to some version of me that doesn't exist. I'm an asshole, Q, I'm fucking _poison_ , you don't want to be around me and the sooner you realise that, the sooner I can--"

"The sooner you can what? Jump overboard?" Quentin steps in closer, hands at his side, fingers twitching like he'll reach for Eliot if Eliot even thinks too hard about trying that. "I've wanted to be around you since I saw you lounging like Kate Winslet on the Brakebills sign, El. You're an asshole, but so am I. We _work,_ we're complimentary flavors of asshole."

There's a sharp, almost hysterical edge to Eliot's laugh. "No," he says, "that's not true. You're-- good and brave and true, and I _fucking destroy everything I touch._ I hurt people, I _kill people_ that get close to me, I can't function without _this_ \--" He spreads out his hands, encompassing the bottles around them; "--except for when I'm living out some kind of ridiculous fantasy in a place with _literal opium in the air_ , God, even when I'm trying to go sober I'm still a fucking _heroin addict_ , and I just-- I need-- I _need_ \--"

"You need someone to be kind to you," Quentin says, firm but soft as he closes the distance between them. He reaches up, cups Eliot's cheeks in his hands and thumbs away the tears Eliot hasn't even noticed. "You're trying so hard, Eliot - you _always_ try, and it's not your fault that shit's fucked."

"It is," Eliot moans, miserable. "It's all my fault, all of it. I _know_ ," he snaps, suddenly vicious, glaring at an empty space on the other side of the deck and almost twisting himself to the floor. "I chose to kick the shit out of Taylor, and I chose to kill Mike, and I even chose to kill Logan. And yes, I _definitely_ chose to do _that_ , fucker, of course I did, because why would I _not_ push away the best thing in my life and tell him that I don't want to be with him when I'm still _fucking in love with him!_ "

Quentin sucks in a sharp breath, his hands dropping from Eliot's face to his waist. " _El,_ " he breathes, equal parts stricken and hopeful. 

"Just go," Eliot sighs, listing against the mast. "Please, just-- put me out of my fucking misery."

Quentin swallows. "I can do that," he says. And then, before Eliot's drunken mind can catch on to what he's doing, he slips a hand into the pocket where Eliot had put the Key. His fingers close around it, and he hears not-Quentin chuckle, appearing from nowhere in the corner of his eye, but before the hallucination can start in earnest, Quentin turns on his heel and _hurls_ the Key with all of his might, watches the cold, dull metal glint in the light from their torches before something _huge_ moves in the darkness. It's the red eyes, and as they come closer, Quentin sees that they're attached to a fucking _dragon._ The dragon snaps up the Key, disappears into the darkness of the Abyss again - and not-Quentin vanishes with it.

Eliot collapses like his strings have been cut, and he quite literally hits the deck, hard. "Fuck," he gasps, pulling in lungfuls of air like a drowning man, desperate and ragged. "Fuck, Q. Q. _What did you do?_ "

"Threw that fucking Key away," Quentin says, kneeling beside Eliot and keeping him from falling all the way over. "It's fine, it's gone, I'm more worried about you now."

" _Quentin_ ," Eliot moans, bowing his head between his arms where he's-- on his fucking hands and knees on the deck. The ship lurches beneath him, or maybe that's just him, swaying in place. He screws his eyes shut. "I-- I don't feel very well."

"I know," Quentin murmurs, one hand resting between Eliot's shoulder blades, the other curved around one shoulder. "Come on, let's get you back to our cabin, yeah?"

"Yeah," Eliot sighs. "Yeah, okay. I-- Help me up?"

"Yeah," Quentin says, shifting so that he can offer Eliot one hand. "Come on, nice and easy. We'll take it slow."

The crew averts their gaze as Quentin helps Eliot first to his feet and then below deck, through the corridor to their cabin. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get them through the door, and then Quentin leads Eliot to the bed, helps him sit down just as carefully as he'd helped Eliot stand up. "How are you feeling?" he asks as he draws back, hands still hovering, ready to catch Eliot if he tips one way or the other. 

"Less likely to vomit," Eliot says. He sounds drained, hollow. He can't look at Quentin. "I'm fucking... exhausted."

Quentin hums a sympathetic noise. "Do you want to try to lie down and sleep?"

Eliot lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. "Yeah," he says. "I should-- the cot."

"Nope, not this time," Quentin says firmly. "I just woke up, I'll stay up and watch over you, make sure you don't choke on your own vomit in your sleep or something. But you're sleeping here."

"Okay," Eliot sighs, and just kind of flops back onto the pillows.

* * *

Everything is bad. That's all Eliot knows when he wakes up. His head is splitting, he feels unbelievably sick, and he wants to die. "Oh, I want to die," he groans, aloud, to no one in particular.

"Not yet you don't," Quentin says, sounding regretful. "I'm told this drink from Chef Harding will clear up a hangover by basically making you speedrun it. But I don't think you want to be hungover on a boat for longer than you need to be, and I don't think the _Muntjac_ would appreciate you throwing up on her."

"Oh god," Eliot complains - but he sits up. "Okay. Gimme. Let's do this."

Quentin hands over the drink and a bucket, and then sits back. It's a process and a half, and not a pretty sight to behold, let alone to experience personally. All told, it lasts about five minutes, but even though it's a close call Eliot manages not to throw up. He's doing very well, and Quentin tells him as much.

"Ugh," Eliot says, still clinging to the empty bucket. "I hate everything."

"I know," Quentin says, shifting so that he can reach out and carefully rub one comforting hand over Eliot's back. "But at least this part's over and you're sober now?"

"I am sober now," Eliot agrees, lifting his head with wide eyes. "Which means I can actually process what happened last night. Quentin, what the fuck?"

"It's rough," Quentin says sympathetically. "Sounds like the Key was getting... _really_ deep into your past."

"That's not what I meant, Quentin," Eliot says. "You fucking-- launched it. You idiot!" He grabs Quentin's arm, pulls him closer. "Are you okay? What's it saying to you right now?"

Quentin's eyes go wide. "Nothing, because it's not here!" he says, aiming for reassuring and not certain he hits the mark. He puts one hand over the one Eliot has on his arm. "Eliot, you weren't hallucinating the eyes, earlier. I think the dragon that Poppy stole the Key from's been tracking the Key, because when I chucked it..." He shrugs. "The dragon swallowed it, and the hallucination vanished."

Eliot gapes at him. "Q, if you're lying, I swear to God--"

"I'm not, I swear," Quentin says earnestly. "The crew saw the dragon, too. I don't know why the hallucination vanished, maybe it’s haunting the dragon now, but it's not here. It's not haunting me."

Eliot's hand tightens almost painfully on Quentin's arm. "Do you _swear_ it?"

Quentin shifts, scoots in closer until his thigh is pressed against Eliot's. He slides his fingers under Eliot's, turns their hands so he can thread them together as he meets Eliot's gaze. "Eliot. I swear to you, I don't see or hear the hallucination from the Darkness Key."

All the breath leaves Eliot with a _whoosh_ , and he just... deflates. "Okay," he says. "That's-- Okay."

"Okay," Quentin echoes, squeezing Eliot's hand. They sit in silence for only a moment before Quentin ventures, "Do you... What was it talking about? That drove you up there."

Eliot sighs. "Nothing," he says. "Everything. It was talking about Mike, and Logan and Taylor. And you." He takes a slow, even breath. "And my alcoholism, and my father, and the fact that everything about me is fake. I could go on. It certainly did."

Quentin's expression softens. "Yeah, that’s what it does," he murmurs, gaze dropping to the bedspread for a moment before he takes a deep breath. "Do you - Do you remember yelling at it? After I found you?"

"A little," Eliot admits. "I think I told it-- that I chose everything. All the horrible things I've done. Including..." He trails off, and looks up at Quentin with something like fear in his eyes. "Oh."

"So you do remember," Quentin sighs, his grip tightening on Eliot's hand, maybe out of nerves, maybe so Eliot can't try to run away. "Did you mean it? That you're still in love with me?"

Eliot bows his head. "Yeah," he says. "I meant it. I'm so sorry, Q."

"What... What are you apologizing for?"

"For lying," Eliot admits. "For you finding out this way. For you finding out at all."

Quentin sucks in a sharp breath. "What do you mean, for me finding out at all?"

"Well, I wouldn't have said all that shit if I wanted you to find out I didn't mean it, would I?" Eliot asks, snarky.

" _El,_ " Quentin says, quiet and pained. "Please, don't bullshit me right now."

"What do you want me to say?" Eliot asks. "I was fucking terrified, and I still am. I'm scared that we won't work when we're not living in the middle of a fairytale; I'm scared that I'll fuck it up or you'll realise that I'm not what you want and I'll lose you forever."

Quentin takes a deep breath before he speaks, shifting so that he's holding Eliot's hand in both of his. "Eliot, look at me. You will never lose me, okay? Even if we don't work out romantically, you're my best friend. I'm not giving that up. And I'd rather try to make things work with you and know, than sit back and wonder if we could've made it work for the rest of this life."

Eliot shakes his head. "You'll find someone else," he says. "Alice, or-- someone, I don't know. You did at the mosaic, too. Maybe we wouldn't have worked as well if you didn't also have a wife."

Quentin blinks, then frowns, something dangerous in his tone as he asks, "Are you saying the only reason we worked is because I could also fuck a woman?"

"No," Eliot says. "No, I know that I implied that you're not-- queer enough for me, and I'm sorry. Of course you are, I just--" He sighs. "I spent fifty years telling myself that I'd have to give you up if we ever got back here because you wouldn't be with me if you had a choice. Because, honestly, who the fuck would?"

Quentin's expression softens, and he squeezes Eliot's hand in gentle apology. "I would," he says. "Eliot, I was already in love with you by the time we left for the mosaic. I just... never thought _you'd_ choose _me,_ because - " He laughs, a short, humorless burst of sound. "Well, take your pick. Depression, anxiety, on the spectrum, far too clingy..."

"Bullshit," Eliot says. "All of that just means that you're the strongest person I know."

Quentin shakes his head, lips quirked in a half-smile. "Trust that to be the thing you focus on, after I say I'm in love with you."

Eliot squeezes his hand. "Listen," he says, "I know exactly what that Key does to you, Q, and if any part of you still thinks any of what it says is true, that's more important."

"I don't believe it," Quentin says, without a hint of lie. "I never did, El."

"It was getting to you before I took the Key from you," Eliot says.

"Only because it was relentless," Quentin counters, sighing. "I couldn't escape from it no matter what I did."

"I know," Eliot murmurs, because he found that out first-hand. "But, for the record, I would choose you. I will choose you, if you'll let me."

Quentin smiles, small at first and then growing into a grin. "And if I say that I'd choose you, too?"

Eliot grins back. "Then I'd say let's choose each other, and see what happens."

"Perfect," Quentin sighs. "Can the first thing that happens be a kiss? Because I _really_ want to kiss you."

Eliot laughs, and the sound of it just lights Quentin up. "I love you," he says, "come here."

Quentin moves closer, climbing into Eliot's lap and lifting his hands to curl over Eliot's shoulders. Even like this, they're barely of a height, but Quentin's still smiling. "Hi," he breathes, soft and intimate. 

"Hi," Eliot murmurs. His own hands fall to Quentin's waist, and he leans in to kiss that lovely smile.

Quentin practically melts into the kiss, humming happily as one hand shifts, curls around the back of Eliot's neck and slides up so that his fingers can card through Eliot's curls. When they part with a soft sound, Quentin sighs. " _Fuck,_ I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Eliot promises, and kisses him again. "I haven't kissed you anywhere near enough in this timeline."

Quentin grins, ducking in for another kiss just because he can. "I think we've got about, what, fifty years to catch up on?"

"Well, I'm not in any rush," Eliot says, and hides his smile against Quentin's jaw. "If we take our time, we might last another fifty."

"Promise?"

"It's like you said," Eliot murmurs. "Proof of concept."

They're kissing again when the door to their cabin bursts open and Benedict hurries into the room. "Your Majesties!" he cries - and stalls, mortified. "Oh, your _Majesties_ , I'm so sorry, I--"

Quentin leans back, but he doesn't bother sliding out of Eliot's lap just yet. "It's all right, Benedict," he says, giving Benedict an encouraging smile. "What did you need?"

Benedict falters, and sketches a quick, awkward bow. "We've, we've made it, Your Majesty. We're out of the Abyss."

Quentin's eyes widen. "You're sure?" he demands. 

"Yes!" Benedict cries. "You can see the sky! The captain says we're only a few days from home."

Quentin grins, shifting in Eliot's lap so he can wrap one arm around Eliot's shoulders in a hug. "We made it," he says, expression softening as he looks from Benedict to Eliot. 

Eliot hugs him back, tight, and grins at Benedict over his shoulder. "Thank God," he says, laughing, and pulls back so that he can kiss Quentin soundly. "Come on, Q. Let's go see the sky."


End file.
